


"call me dr. sinclair"

by novoaa1



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, F/F, Getting Together, Kinda Cracky, Lena Luthor Finds Out Kara Danvers is Supergirl, Lena Luthor Needs a Hug, Lena Luthor-centric, POV Lena Luthor, Past Lena Luthor/James "Jimmy" Olsen, but its here so, its a long story, its funny, lena drinks a lot of wine, lena gets kidnapped again bc that girl cannot catch a break fr, listen i really don't know where this came from ok, semi seriously i guess, they love each other a lot, uhhhh, veronica ends up being a great wingman, veronica plays therapist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 02:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19308856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: "Oh, nothing, Supergirl," Veronica continues conversationally, gesturing mindlessly in the air as she speaks. "Now, will you just ask poor Lena out already? Because really, this is getting ridiculous.""I—" Kara staggers backwards, shock written all over her features. "What?"Lena heaves a sigh, reluctantly turning back to face a wholeheartedly flabbergasted Kara. "I’m sorry, Supergirl, it’s—it’s averylong story, I—""It’s really not," Veronica interrupts oh-so-helpfully, and Lena turns back around to shoot her a cold glare (which she ignores, obviously). "Lena’s into you, and you’re into her, so, justbonealready!"Lena fights the urge to smack herself in the forehead.Or: Lena gets kidnapped by an old acquaintance. Things devolve from there. (Post-4x22)





	"call me dr. sinclair"

**Author's Note:**

> ok so honestly this was not gonna turn out this way okay it was just gonna be a very trope-y 'lena gets kidnapped kara saves her then they realize they're in love and live happily ever after' but uhmmmmmm
> 
> well
> 
> it got away from me, okay?

It’s 12:04am, and Lena’s about three-quarters of the way through a particularly expensive (even by her standards) bottle of Moscato, the white wine bitter and almost nauseating on her tongue—but it gives her a sort of warmth she hasn’t known since well before everything had gotten so horribly fucked up, and that’s enough to make her keep drinking like there’s a message in the bottle, acrid taste be damned. 

 

It’s been 51 hours (not that Lena’s counting, or anything) since she’d killed Lex, since she’d shot a bullet into the chest of the only family she’d ever known, since she’d lost _everything_. 

 

51 hours since her favorite person on the planet left her; 51 hours since she pulled the trigger to make him go; 51 hours since he spat out _“Kara Danvers is Supergirl”_ with his dying breath, chuckling to himself like it was the funniest thing he’d said all year before his body went slack, the light fading steadily from his cruel eyes. 

 

Which, it wasn’t, to be very clear. Funny, that is.

 

It was the farthest thing from humorous, actually, because now, Lena feels more broken and lost than she’s ever felt before, which, considering her history, is bloody well saying something. 

 

It’s been 51 hours, and she’s quite sure she’s on the verge of crumbling into a million tiny little pieces, because Kara lied and Lex is dead and Kara _lied_ and Lena’s all alone, just like Lillian said she’d be. 

 

And, it’s only made worse by the fact that, somewhere along the way, she’d discovered the gall to sit there across from her adoptive mother and tell her that she was mistaken, that Lena had friends now who wouldn’t abandon her, that she wasn’t alone anymore and never would be again. 

 

God, she was such an idiot— _is_ such an idiot. 

 

Lex is right, and it’s slowly eating her alive—because yes, the joke really is on her. It always has been. She was just far too stupid and pathetically idealistic to see it. 

 

She bites the inside of her cheek _hard_ and doesn’t flinch when she tastes coppery blood, refuses to wince as she pours another generous gulp of Moscato down her throat, powerful dizziness and a sluggish sort of nostalgia permeating her senses—and still, it’s not enough. 

 

It’s not enough, because through it all, there's Lex and Lillian and a billion other past hurts that won’t leave her the _fuck_ alone; through it all, there’s Kara— _Supergirl_ , telling Lena awful things, saying _“I will always be here for you”_ and _“You deserve better than Lillian and Lex”_ and all those stupid promises that don’t mean a goddamned _thing_ now that Lena knows Kara's been lying to her since the very start. 

 

Those words used to comfort her, those remembrances of times when someone believed in her… when _Kara_ believed in her. 

 

Now, they just feel like sucker punches to the gut, like another of Lillian’s more coldhearted betrayals, like all of it—the late nights, the raw honesty (on Lena’s side, at least), the countless rescues and maddening close calls—meant nothing. 

 

Like _Lena_ meant nothing. 

 

It’s too much— _God_ , it’s too much. She takes another long swig of wine, draining the bottle, feeling the nauseating warmth that gathers in her stomach as a result—and still, it’s not enough. 

 

(That’s becoming something of a theme as of late, unfortunately.)

 

A sob escapes her throat then, animalistic and needy and _embarrassing_ , but she doesn’t care; she’s too far gone to care right now because things don’t make sense and the room’s spinning and Kara never loved her but she loves Kara so deeply it aches and God, she can’t _do_ this.

 

She needs Kara, but she knows she can’t call her, and she hates that reality more than anything. 

 

All she can do is drink and cry and drink some more, because there’s no one to call, no one who’ll rush to Lena’s aide—not unless they want for something in return. 

 

She’d call James, but she’s not in the mood to sell her body for empty comforts, for lack of a better phrase. He’s a kind man, and she knows that (a hell of a lot better than most of them—though, to be fair, the bar’s been set fairly low to begin with), but she also knows damn well the message she’d be sending if she called him over now—midnight, alone and drunk in her penthouse, even despite the tear tracks drying on her skin. 

 

He’d think they were starting something again—he’d think Lena wanted him again. 

 

He’s a good man, and she knows that… but, no. 

 

No, her affections haven’t strayed from a certain blonde, gorgeous, chronically clueless reporter named Kara Danvers for a very long time—and with the way things have been going, she’s downright _terrified_ they never will.

 

Because, she should be angry at Kara, right? Furious, really. 

 

And yet here she is, at 12:16am on a Saturday night (or Sunday morning—whatever), and as much as she’ll tell herself that the raging fire burning in her gut is nothing more than righteous fury directly solely at one Kara Danvers… she knows better. 

 

(She refuses to be stupid for Kara and the rest of them ever again—because really, that’s what that was.

 

She played the fool for them, and they let her. 

 

Never again.)

 

She knows the portion of her that’s truly angry is pitifully small, because it’s very nearly eclipsed in staggering totality by the love she feels, the _devotion_ , even after Kara Danvers hurt her in a way she never dreamed she might.

 

Somehow, that makes it worse. 

 

Because, if she’s not angry, then she’s hurt, and Lena’s really not quite sure how much more of this ‘hurt’ she’s been equipped to handle. 

 

How many people have to lie to her before she breaks? How many times must she endure betrayal after betrayal from those closest to her, those she’s been foolish enough to _love_ , before it inevitably causes her to shatter? How many times does she have to drag her battered bones back up off the floor only to be forced back down again, before she’s begging the skies above for reprieve, even if that means laying down her life for the final time?

 

How much of this _pain_ is she supposed to take?

 

(She thinks that if there’s a God up there, he’s most certainly trying to find out.)

 

With the steady downwards trajectory her evening (and the past week or so of her life) had been taking, perhaps she should’ve expected the chloroform-soaked fabric pressed against her tear-stained face, the hard press of a gun digging into her back—all trademark signs of yet another kidnapping-slash-possible-assassination-attempt. 

 

As it was, she barely got out something that vaguely resembled a muffled scream before the darkness closed in, before the strong bulky arms of her captor wrapped her tightly in an inescapable hold, before she surrendered willingly to it with a final prayer to whoever was up there: that Kara would be safe; that He’d look after her when she couldn’t, because from the way things were looking, she might not be around to do it herself any longer. 

 

Good Lord, love had made her weak. 

 

— — 

 

“C’mon, dear, open those pretty green eyes—I know you’re awake.”

 

Lena fights the urge to roll her eyes, but obeys anyhow, unsurprised to see a smirking Veronica Sinclair standing before her, dressed in a revealing low-cut blood-red dress, serpent tattoos proudly on display across smooth olive-tinted skin. 

 

“Lena, darling,” she greets once she’s sure she has Lena’s attention, arms spread wide in a welcoming gesture, crimson lips curling into a knowing smirk. “It’s been far too long." 

 

“Not nearly long enough,” Lena quips back, squirming upon the ground against the tight metal cuffs holding her arms securely behind her back. “Are these restraints really necessary?”

 

Veronica sighs heavily at that, but gives a curt nod to two well-built man in suits behind Lena (probably the men who’d grabbed her, she reasons)—a second later, she’s been yanked to her feet, the cuffs unceremoniously undone, her wrists aching with the remembrance of their steely grip. 

 

“Now that you’ve gone to all this trouble,” Lena skillfully directs the conversation (just as Lionel had taught her), rubbing delicately at her reddened wrists and tilting her head curiously at her old schoolmate, “what is it you want, exactly? You could’ve just called.”

 

Veronica’s chilling smirk deepens. “I’m happy to see you’ve still retained your sharp wit. I always adored it, as you well know.”

 

Lena’s lips twitch, undeterred. “So? Why am I here?”

 

Veronica heaves another sigh, amusement sparkling in her dark brown eyes. “You’ve been busy lately. My sources tell me you’ve uncovered the recipe for Kryptonite.”

 

“Synthetic Kryptonite.”

 

Veronica shrugs, that infuriating grin remaining stubbornly in place. “That’s of little consequence to me.”

 

Lena scoffs. “And, let me guess: You’d like me to hand it over to you?”

 

Veronica gasps theatrically at that, her expression the very epitome of mock surprise. “Bravo! Beauty _and_ brains—who says you can’t have it all?”

 

Red-hot anger simmers in Lena’s gut, but she ignores it. “No.”

 

“No?” Veronica repeats, frowning. 

 

“No, you can’t have it. Why do you want it, anyway?”

 

Veronica eyes Lena thoughtfully for a minute, before ultimately saying, “For security.”

 

Lena lifts a brow. “I thought your thing was exploiting refugee aliens, not taking on Kryptonian gods.” 

 

“Well, you’re right, of course… But, I can’t have a Super breaking up my business every time I start anew, now, can I?”

 

“And you think starting a war with Supergirl is your best chance at continuing to oversee illegal, not to mention _barbaric_ fights amongst the city’s underground community of mobsters and criminals?”

 

Veronica shakes her head, chuckling. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you, you know that?”

 

“And you’re a lot dumber than I thought you were.”

 

“Careful, Luthor,” Veronica warns, jaw clenching. “Don’t forget who holds the cards here.”

 

“What, are you gonna kill me?”

 

Veronica cocks a single brow. “Would that change your attitude?”

 

Lena laughs—it’s hollow, cold… almost _scary_ , even to her. “Not even a little.”

 

“Interesting,” she muses, stepping closer—Lena resists the urge to reflexively step back, her head still horribly dizzy and aching. (Though, from the chloroform knockout or the wine she chugged beforehand, she isn’t sure—probably a little bit of both, honestly.) “This is a new development, hm? Who’s angered you, little Luthor? Who—”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

Anger flashes across Veronica’s angular features, and she grips Lena’s jaw hard in an iron-clad grip, unwavering cruelty flashing in her eyes. 

 

“Don’t interrupt me,” she snarls. 

 

After a long moment, she lets Lena go—her jaw throbs where Veronica gripped it, and she knows she’ll have bruises forming by morning. 

 

“Now, tell me—where did your survival instinct go? There must be _something_ you still care about.”

 

“Besides getting out of here and having you arrested for your crimes?” Lena hums, feigning thoughtfulness for a moment. “No, not particularly.”

 

“Feisty,” Veronica appraises. “There’s a little of the Lena I used to know.”

 

“Enough, Roulette. I’m not giving you the formula, and I’m most certainly not going to work with you, so can we just get this over and done with?”

 

“Get what ‘over and done with’?” She does air quotes along with that, her perfectly manicured blood-red nails glinting in the scant lighting, and Lena fights the urge to shiver. 

 

“Threats, torture, whatever. Dealer’s choice.”

 

A look of abrupt interest overtakes Veronica’s features at that. “And here I was, thinking it was all a front.”

 

Lena sighs, bone-deep exhaustion and a dull, relentless pain swirling around her head in equal parts until she yearns for a glass of wine—a bottle, more like. “What?”

 

“You really don’t care if you live or die,” Veronica states then, sounding taken aback— _impressed_ , almost.

 

Lena narrows her gaze, pain stabbing through her skull. “Let’s just say you’ve caught me on something of an off day.”

 

“You don’t say.” She looks amused now, playful—Lena loathes it. “Did Jimmy Olsen finally break up with you?”

 

Lena raises a brow—she’s surprised by the question, and a little bit confused, even though she’ll never show it. “We ended things weeks ago, not that that’s any of your business, of course.”

 

Veronica nods, unperturbed. “Surprised I kept tabs on you?”

 

“Not surprised, so much as annoyed.”

 

“Aw, Lena,” she pouts, dramatic and mocking. “You should take it as a compliment!”

 

“I don’t.”

 

Veronica rolls her eyes. “You know, I liked you better when you actually valued your own life.”

 

Lena shrugs inconsequentially, though there’s undeniable truth in her next words: “Me, too.”

 

“Well, then,” Veronica says, heaving a long sigh. “I guess I’ll just have to go about this another way. Kidnapping, endangering your work—you know how it goes.”

 

Lena smirks, bitter and empty—but genuine, and that’s perhaps the worst part of it. “I’m afraid you won’t find any souls to kidnap who I call friend. Not anymore. And, as for my work? Well, perhaps my father’s company should have died along with Lex’s half-baked dream of killing Superman. So, truly, Veronica—take your best shot.”

 

“Is that who you’re so beaten down about? Your ‘friends’?”

 

“They’re not my friends any longer.”

 

“Who isn’t? Kara Danvers?”

 

Lena huffs, a light flush coloring her cheeks that has nothing to do with the throbbing pain in her body or the debilitating ache in her skull. “Does it matter? Like I said, we’re not friends anymore.”

 

“But you want to be.”

 

“I liked it better when you were threatening to kill me.”

 

Veronica shrugs. “It’s not my fault you’re no fun to torture when you’ve lost your will to live… So until you get that back, I can’t get my Kryptonite.”

 

“Synthetic Kryptonite.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“So, what are you, my therapist now?” Lena asks, brows raised. 

 

Veronica chuckles at that. “Call me Dr. Sinclair.”

 

“I’d rather eat my own hand.”

 

“Cute,” Veronica remarks flatly. “Now, tell me about this fight with Kara Danvers.”

 

“Not a chance.”

 

“Luthor, I’m offering my _help_ here.”

 

Lena crosses her arms against her chest. “And what makes you think I _want_ your help?”

 

“Well, I suppose I could try killing her for you, if that’s easier.”

 

Lena snorts. “You can’t.”

 

“Why, because she’s Kryptonian, or because she’s the love of your life?”

 

Lena promptly chokes on air, inelegant hacks escaping her as she gasps for oxygen; and Veronica—cold-blooded, homicidal Veronica—just waits patently for her to regain her composure, her expression wrought with polite interest. 

 

“I-I’m sorry, _what?_ " Lena manages after a long string of poor attempts at catching her breath, the words hoarse and gravelly coming out of her throat. 

 

Veronica smirks, tilting her head. “Which part?”

 

Lena just gapes—though after a long moment, she decides she really doesn’t care enough to hash this out right now; all she wants to do is go home, drink some wine, and fall asleep in her king-sized bed with lush silken sheets, preferably black-out drunk.

 

“Look, Veronica—if you’re not gonna torture me, then can I leave now?”

 

Veronica pretends to think about it for a moment. “No.”

 

“And why not?”

 

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you and Kara Danvers?”

 

Lena lets out an amused puff of air. “Not a chance.”

 

“Then, no.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

Veronica shrugs. “If you don’t fix your girl problem, how am I supposed to get my Kryptonite?”

 

“Synthetic,” Lena corrects her through gritted teeth, and Veronica heaves a sigh. 

 

“Yes, that. So if I want my _synthetic_ ,” she puts an overdone emphasis on the word, and Lena rolls her eyes, “Kryptonite, then we have to fix this lady-loving dilemma of yours first.”

 

“Don’t call it that,” Lena counters, but it’s weak, half-hearted—she’s breaking, and she can feel it, but she’s too far gone to care because God, she’s still confused as all hell by Kara and everything that’s happened, and what exactly would it hurt to talk it through with someone, even if that someone is an egomaniacal narcissistic criminal mastermind like Veronica Sinclair?

 

(It’s not like she has any other friends to call over for 'Girls’ Night.’)

 

Veronica’s eyes glint with excitement, a wide smirk spreading across her features—it’s as if she can _taste_ Lena’s surrender on her two-pronged tongue (not that she actually has one, but, you know, whatever—it’s a snake joke, okay? ‘Cause of all the snake-y body art? Kara would’ve found it funny). “Does that mean you’ll tell me?”

 

Lena lets out another sigh. _What the hell_. “Fine.”

 

— — 

 

“So, she lied to you.”

 

Lena fights the urge to roll her eyes. “Among other things.”

 

“Oh?” Veronica asks, leaning forward, and apprehensive look on her features. “Do tell.”

 

“And why should I do that?”

 

“You want to get out of here, don’t you?"

 

Lena sighs. “She didn’t trust me.”

 

Veronica throws up her hands, clearly exasperated. “That’s it?”

 

Lena throws her a biting glare. “You asked.”

 

“True,” Veronica concedes. “But, _seriously?_ “

 

“She had James break into my labs at L-Corp."

 

“While you were dating?”

 

Lena nods curtly, pain lancing through her chest. “While we were dating.”

 

“Ouch.”

 

“But, as Kara Danvers, she acted like we were still best friends. The whole time.”

 

Veronica sucks in a breath, brow furrowed in an expression that _almost_ resembles empathy—but, Lena knows better. (Or, at least, she’d like to think she does.) “Okay, so, that’s not great. You sure you don’t want me to kill her for you?”

 

A wry grin tugs at Lena’s lips. “She’d crush you like a gnat, and really, Veronica, I don’t hate you _that_ much. That’s… unusually kind of you to offer, though.”

 

Veronica shrugs. “I could kill her sister instead. The D.E.O. agent? That’d send a message.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Lena tells her emphatically, her headache returning tenfold. “No, no one’s killing _anyone_.”

 

“Your loss.”

 

This time, Lena doesn’t fight the urge to roll her eyes. “You suck at this.”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

Lena snorts. “Yes, you do.”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“Do.”

 

“Take it back,” she growls, and Lena smirks. 

 

“Aw, did I hurt your feelings?"

 

Veronica rolls her eyes. “Let’s just talk about your gigantic lady boner for the Girl of Steel, hm?”

 

“I’m gonna kill you.”

 

“Somehow, I don’t think your star-spangled girlfriend would approve—"

 

“She’s _not_ my girlfriend."

 

“But you want her to be,” Veronica states matter-of-factly, and Lena feels like punching her. 

 

Instead, she clenches her jaw, fighting to control her temper. “And what does that matter?”

 

“Well, for starters, I’m pretty sure she wants to bone you, too.”

 

“ _Please_ stop saying that,” Lena groans, rubbing tiredly at her temples. 

 

Veronica heaves a long sigh. “So, I can reasonably assume you haven’t slept together yet?”

 

Lena blinks, taken aback, hands falling limply to her sides. “What?”

 

“Don’t forget—I know your style, Luthor,” Veronica chides, low and teasing. “You’ve never been a stranger to sex, and I’m quite sure if you propositioned her she’d say yes… So, what gives?”

 

“I don’t… I’m different now,” Lena manages, lauding herself when she gets through it without stuttering. 

 

“Shame.” Veronica clicks her tongue, looking contemplative. “So, what’s your plan?”

 

“Plan?”

 

“To get Kara Danvers fucking you six ways from Sunday,” Veronica explains, slow and condescending, a smug grin curling her lips. “Duh."

 

_Jesus_. “Are you sure you can’t just kill me?”

 

Veronica rolls her eyes again, huffing out a sigh. “Don’t be daft, hon. We’ve been over this: get you some action first, then get me my Kryptonite.”

 

“Synthetic.”

 

“You know, you’re making the whole ‘killing you’ option seem more appealing by the second.”

 

“Well, if it means I don’t have to do _this_ ,” Lena gestures vaguely between them, “with you, then I can’t quite see the downside.”

 

Veronica ignores her. “Here’s an idea: tell her how you feel."

 

“Here’s an idea: go fuc—“

 

_Crash!_ Something breaks through the abandoned warehouse’s ceiling like tissue paper, dust and chunks of cement raining from overhead, a single figure landing in the space (the ground cracking violently beneath their feet), dressed in trademark blues and red, a long crimson cape flowing off strong, defined shoulders and—

 

_Crap_. 

 

It’s Kara. 

 

Instantly, Lena’s whirling back around to glower at Veronica, Kara entirely forgotten (at least, for the moment). “Did you call her here?”

 

Veronica laughs, loud and unrestrained. “As _if_. She’s not _my_ girlfriend, now, is she?” 

 

“She’s _not_ my girlf—"

 

“Roulette!” comes Kara’s booming voice, cape swishing majestically behind her as she comes to stand protectively before Lena, staring down Veronica with a determined glare. “It’s over. Turn yourself in.”

 

Lena’s head spins, mouth opening and closing like a land-borne fish as she rushes to explain. “Ka— _Supergirl_ , I—"

 

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Veronica chuckles, looking over Kara’s shoulder to eye Lena, evidently amused (and entirely undeterred by Kara’s intimidating stance before her). “She’s _clearly_ into you.”

 

At that, Kara falters (if only slightly), her self-righteous facade forgotten for the moment. “Wh—Huh?”

 

Lena fights the urge to smack herself in the forehead. 

 

“Oh, nothing, Supergirl,” Veronica continues conversationally, gesturing mindlessly in the air as she speaks. “Now, will you just ask poor Lena out already? Because really, this is getting ridiculous.”

 

“I—" Kara staggers backwards, narrowly missing Lena, shock written all over her features. “ _What?_ "

 

Lena heaves a sigh, turning back to face an awe-struck Kara. “I’m sorry, Supergirl, it’s—it’s a _very_ long story, I—"

 

“It’s really not,” Veronica interrupts oh-so-helpfully, and Lena turns back around to shoot her a cold glare (which she ignores, obviously). “Lena’s into you, and you’re into her, so, _bone_ already!”

 

Kara’s eyes bulge comically and she chokes on nothing, her cheeks flushing a deep scarlet as her blue-eyed gaze darts from Lena to Veronica and back again like an enthralled spectator at a particularly intriguing match of table tennis. 

 

“Please just arrest her,” Lena pleads, red-faced and wholeheartedly embarrassed as Kara gasps for air— _God_ , she’s going to need so much wine after this. 

 

Kara sputters, “B-But—B—I—"

 

“Oh, I’ll come quietly, of course… “ Veronica purrs, pausing for dramatic effect. “As long as you make sure Lena doesn’t, Supergirl,” she finishes with a flirty wink, and Lena’s sure her brain short-circuits from sheer _embarrassment_.

 

Kara, meanwhile, isn’t faring much better, if the renewed round of hacking coughs is anything to go by, her deep red blush reaching the tips of her ears, hands on her knees as she struggles to maintain her balance—Lena makes a mental note to order another case of Moscato once she’s home, _stat_. Maybe two. 

 

Idly, she assesses the situation once more: Veronica’s smirk is widening exponentially, Kara continues to sputter helplessly with no real end in sight—mind made up, Lena nods to herself. _Two. Definitely two_. 

 

— — 

 

Lena sighs, plopping unceremoniously down into her seat. “You were right."

 

“What was that, darling?” Veronica leans forward, interest sparkling in her eyes, clearly unperturbed by the steel cuffs chaining her wrists to the metal table between them. It’s been two months since that fateful day in the warehouse, and Veronica Sinclair remains in the D.E.O.’s custody under J’onn Jonzz and Alex Danvers’ watchful eye—which is nothing short of confounding, of course. 

 

(Lena’s quite sure her inevitable escape is imminent.) 

 

But in the meantime, she’s here, and despite their history, Lena needs to tell her this: “I said, you were right.”

 

Veronica smirks, looking far too comfortable in the dark-grey standardized D.E.O. prison garb. “And to think, you doubted me all this time.”

 

“You’re not exactly what I would call a reliable source.”

 

Veronica shrugs. “Fair’s fair. How’s the sex?”

 

Lena fights the urge to roll her eyes, a wry smirk tugging at her lips in spite of herself. “Out of this world.”

 

“That was terrible."

 

“I’m a Luthor, love—what did you expect?”

 

Veronica smiles—then drops it, a thoughtful expression overtaking her features. “She’s treating you well?”

 

“Yeah,” Lena says quietly, a gentle smile on her features, one she typically reserves for Kara and Kara alone. “Yeah, she is.”

 

“Good. Let me know if that changes.”

 

Lena quirks a brow. “I thought we agreed on not killing anyone.”

 

“Funny,” Veronica muses, tilting her head in thought. "I don’t remember ever agreeing to such a thing.”

 

Lena chuckles at that, standing from her seat. “Of course you don’t.” She moves to leave, then, deftly hitting the buzzer to hail the guard—and she stops for a second, turning back to an uncharacteristically contemplative-looking Veronica still seated at the table, genuine softness in her eyes. “Hey, Veronica?”

 

Veronica furrows a brow, raising her chin to eye Lena curiously. “Hm?”

 

“Thank you,” Lena tells her, and she means it. 

 

Veronica just nods simply at that, curt and sharp—but Lena knows what she’s not saying, knows what it means, and doesn’t press the issue.

 

A second later, the steel-reinforced door shuts behind her with a loud _clang!_ and she’s alone again… but she strides out to the waiting room like she’s not, raises her head high like she’s stronger, and when Kara stands from her seat to envelop Lena in a warm embrace, whispering loving things in her ear like “You did so well” and “I’m so proud of you” and “You’re so strong, Lena,” it’s not fake anymore; it’s not pretend.

 

She really is stronger, and she’ll never be alone again—that’s all that matters.

 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> as always, would love to hear your thoughts:)
> 
> also here’s the link to my 


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